


The Draw

by firenzia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Clothed Aziraphale, Drunk Sex, Drunk idiots, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Naked Crowley, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Humor, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), just a bit of nonsense really, kind of, they share one brain cell, zero dignity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23094808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firenzia/pseuds/firenzia
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have far too much to drink and decide on a little wager. As it turns out, neither of them is a match for the other.
Comments: 69
Kudos: 357
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	The Draw

**Author's Note:**

> This is a PWP one-shot companion to my series, [Love, and Other Ineffable Things](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1405606)
> 
> For those following chronologically, this takes place after they are married and living in at the South Downs cottage.

* * *

It was evening in the Downs, barely. The early-summer sun had just begun to think about setting, and a very determined and slightly confused rooster was crowing somewhere in the distance, determined to have the last word. In a lovely little cottage at the end of a country road, surrounded by a cluster of beech trees, an angel and a demon were relaxing in their sitting room. They were sitting on their sofa and having a drink, just like the old days. 

Well. Not _just_ like the old days. A few significant details had changed. 

They had steadily worked their way through a bottle- but not wine, not tonight. Tonight in a fit of extravagance they had instead cracked open a bottle of their finest single-malt scotch. Just to taste it, naturally. They had to make sure that it was good enough to merit the obscene price they had paid for it, after all. That tasting session had turned into a drinking session as they repeatedly agreed that yes, it was indeed excellent. Most excellent. So very excellent, in fact, that it had devolved into a full-blown debauch, and that bottle was now purely decorative. One crystal tumbler sat drained and forgotten on the lacquered coffee table. The other one lay shattered on the floor and contents spilled across the rug, abandoned when its owner had abruptly found better things to do with his hands. 

Crowley hadn’t meant to start anything, not exactly. They had been just lounging there, sipping their sixth (or so) glass of scotch, when it had suddenly hit him like a brick to the head that he was sitting next to the most gorgeous being on the planet. And he was allowed to _touch_ him. That wasn’t the kind of revelation one could just ignore. He’d been as much a victim of the situation as anyone, really. 

He now sat scrunched in Aziraphale’s lap with arms twined around his neck, stockinged feet propped up on the armrest. The angel’s tartan bow tie was undone, with the top two buttons of his collar opened and his sleeves rolled up, and as far as Crowley’s inflamed, inebriated brain was concerned he may as well have been stark naked. And doing a pole dance. He had one hand stuffed down the back of that shirt as far as it would go (which was only about to his shoulder), and was currently trying to see just how deep into Aziraphale’s mouth he could get his tongue. Pretty deep, as it turned out, but he was certain he could do better with practice. Very enthusiastic practice was key. The other hand had a fistful of blond hair, and he kept shifting his grip around as he decided that it just. wasn’t. enough. The problem, he decided as he adjusted their mouths to a better angle, was that human bodies came equipped with only two hands. An oversight, that. Right now he needed at least five to do everything he wanted to do to him. Maybe six. 

The cheerily-lit room wobbled lazily around him, television and bookshelves and paintings all running together into a blurry mess of colours, and it was only in part due to the alcohol. The rest was due to Aziraphale’s dizzying charm- at least, that’s what he had been telling himself. The whisky had snuck up on him, no doubt about it, and he seemed to be exhaling at least 80% fumes, but that didn’t mean he was sloshed, exactly. After six thousand years he could certainly hold his liquor better than _that_. No. He was just dazzled, that was all. And who could blame him? At any rate he was less drunk than Aziraphale. Probably. _Almost definitely_ , he thought with confidence, as he tightened his grip to avoid falling over. 

The angel had one arm around his shoulders and the other hand clamped squarely on his arse, fingers squeezing as if it would try to escape. He was kissing him back just as enthusiastically, if not more so, and every few seconds that hand would eagerly wander up and down his body and between his legs, stroking his chest and pawing at his growing erection. Crowley noted vaguely that if it grew much more there wasn’t going to be enough blood left in his body to keep him conscious, but no matter. There was no time for stupid details. Not when each touch sent such a delightful jolt through his every nook and cranny, making him moan against his lips and squirm even closer to him. 

As the moments ticked by their embraces quickly grew less controlled, their kisses more and more passionate, until it most closely resembled some kind of unskilled wrestling match. Bystanders would have been alarmed. Aziraphale was panting as he finally started grabbing handfuls of his clothes, pulling awkwardly at his t-shirt and yanking down his fly. Crowley was far too busy to help – he needed both his hands – so he just left him to it. The angel’s fingers were clumsy and uncoordinated, and removing skin-tight trousers without assistance was tricky at the best of times, but he persisted with a dogged determination that would make any military man proud. No surprise there. When Aziraphale decided he wanted something, he pursued it singlemindedly. This was, after all, the same angel that had marched right into Revolutionary Paris dressed like a complete tart, simply because he was hungry. The memory made Crowley smile and kiss him even harder. He had looked so cute sitting there in that dungeon, all chagrined…dressed to the nines, dripping with silk and lace and satin brocade in the middle of a bloody war, the ridiculous creature. The ridiculous, _beautiful_ creature. Knowing full well that he had made a complete mess of things yet refusing to admit it, even as he sat there chained up…very pretty and chained up… 

While he was busy reminiscing Aziraphale slowly peeled off his clothing, piece by fumbling piece, bookending each removal with increasingly desperate kisses, until with a final yank of cloth Crowley found himself sitting completely naked in his lap. Well, except for the socks. They were his favourite staying-in socks: black with little red ducks patterned across them. 

Being naked was definitely an improvement. By now he was almost painfully erect, and those tight trousers hadn’t been doing him any favours in that department. This was much more pleasant. His stiff member pressed gently against the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s blue shirt as he kissed him, and _that_ was even more pleasant. He grunted and pressed in a little harder, digging a groove in that perfectly yielding, plump stomach. God, he was so hard. He was going to have to do something about it very soon, or explode. He wasn’t the only one, either; he could feel him clearly under his thighs, deliciously tight and bulging against his trousers, and the knowledge that he wanted him too was so intoxicating that it was like a sucker punch to his already-reeling brain. His angel’s tidy, familiar clothes pressing all up and down his bare skin was a particular kind of tantalizing; that thin layer of blue fabric over his plush body, the intriguing heat of him just beyond, so close yet inaccessible...holy _fuck_. 

Crowley grabbed a new handful of blond hair with a growl and pulled his head back to get at his throat, licking and biting gently along the soft neck, leaving the faint beginnings of bruises on the milk-pale skin. Aziraphale liked it, despite all his fussing after the fact about _embarrassing_. And Crowley loved seeing those reminders of his mouth on him, loved letting the whole world see. If he didn’t want his neck bitten, he reasoned, then he shouldn’t be so damn handsome. Or taste so good. And he shouldn’t make such lovely gasping noises when he did it. With this flawless logic in mind he proceeded to chomp his way all the way down to where his throat vanished into the shirt collar. 

As he did so he shifted a little further down in his lap, pressing against that hard bulge, and the angel made a rather choked and very undignified noise. “Oh. Do that again, love.” 

He did, and the resulting moan lit up his whisky-addled brain and gave him an idea. An incredibly devilish, _clever_ idea. 

“You know what, angel,” he said softly. He feolt his mouth curve into a sly smile; he bit his lip and leaned in to whisper intently in his ear. The motion made his head spin. “I’m going to make you come just like this. Right here in your trousers." He let go of his hair, reached down and rubbed a hand over the peaked bulge, stroking in little circles . "I bet I – _hic_ – can make you do it. I bet I can make you come first.” He kept rubbing, then shifted over and ground down with his hips. 

“Mmmmmph.” Aziraphale pulled them chest to chest and blinked skeptically at him, blue gaze equally fuzzy. The tips of their noses were just barely touching. “That’s- that’s a bold assumption, seeing’s I’ve got you here all, all indecent.” He rested a hand in his very trouser-free lap and stroked, demonstrating. “You can’t hold out longer than me. I don’t think you have it in you.” 

“Well, not _yet_ ,” Crowley muttered, mouth already back on his neck, and snickered at his own joke. He had stealthily undone another button and now had his hand a bit further down the shirt. “Can I tempt you to a wager, hm?” 

A pause. “What’s the winner get?” 

Crowley blinked and looked up. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uhhhhh…” He concentrated very hard. “Sex?” he offered. It was the only thing to come to mind. 

The angel was shaking his head. “We’ll get that anyway.” 

Crowley grinned foolishly at him for a couple seconds before yanking his mind back to the subject at hand. “Winner chooses dinner then.” _That_ was sure to get his attention. “Y’up for a challenge?” 

“Well, there would have to _be_ a challenge first,” Aziraphale declared haughtily, lifting his chin. “That’s no challenge.” The declaration lost most of its credibility as he broke off with a gasp- Crowley had just wiggled down against him. “You- wily thing-” he gasped again as Crowley shifted again, rubbing harder. He moaned and slid his arms tighter around him, bracing himself and pressing his face to his bare shoulder. 

This was going to be easier than he’d thought. Crowley smirked and struck up a rhythm with his hips, rubbing steadily while he stroked the warm skin under the shirt. “Just give in to it, my angel,” he murmured in his ear. “Give in to temptation.” His body was the most lovely thing, soft as a cloud, yet solid as the earth itself. He could just wrap himself around it and stay there for hours, and- _no, focus_. 

A hand suddenly clamped onto the back of his neck as the angel raised his head- Aziraphale had dredged up some willpower and was going on the offensive. He wrapped his other hand firmly around his erection, and for a moment just sat there and stared down at it, apparently distracted. “Look how lucky I am,” he murmured. He gave himself a little shake, then he was pulling him in and kissing him, shifting his fingers around his sex in time with the movement of his mouth. 

Crowley groaned. _Shit_. This might be a problem after all. He could just wiggle away, of course, but he couldn’t seem to get up the motivation. The part of his body that _was_ up strongly objected to even the thought of stopping, and his lips didn’t want to stop kissing him either. He tried pressing down against Aziraphale’s groin again, but quickly lost focus as those soft fingers slid up and down his own hard length, making him shudder with desire. Suddenly all he wanted to do was sit here, curl up and let Aziraphale pleasure him until...until... 

A distant part of his mind was belatedly second guessing the wisdom of betting against an opponent who held such an advantage. 

The angel chose that moment to give said advantage a squeeze, and he nearly fell off his lap. He recovered his balance with a flail of legs and had to stop and clench his eyes shut for a moment, panting and hanging onto him. “ _Hnnngh_. Ah.” That had been close. 

Aziraphale smirked right in his face, the smug bastard, hand still gripping the back of his neck and keeping him steady. He kissed him gently on the lips. “There you go, love, that’s it. My perfect, lovely, wonderful demon.” 

The words sent another thrill through him, and Crowley exhaled hard. “No. Shut up, that's- that’s cheating.” 

"It's not cheating to know what you like,” Aziraphale countered primly. He looked very pleased with himself. 

Crowley squinted at him. “Oh yeah? So you wanna play it like that, huh?” He leaned over and bit him gently on the neck, then the shoulder, through his shirt, and grinned at Aziraphale’s moan. “Ha.” He grinned some more and bit him again, harder. 

"Now- _ah_ \- that _is_ cheating!" 

“It’s nah chea’ing to know wha’ you like,” he mumbled through a mouthful of shoulder. 

"Don't you want to come, darling?” Aziraphale was apparently changing tactics with the grace of a three-legged elephant; he rubbed him, slowly, and pulled his erect length over to press against his stomach. "Hmm? Don't you want to- to come on me? You can, you know." 

"Ngk, quit it." Because of course he did, he wanted to so badly that it was becoming a struggle to care about winning. He looked down at himself, watching as the angel touched him. 

“I know you want to.” The soft hand slid up him, then down. 

“Nah. Doesn’t- _hah_ \- appeal.” Crowley couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from that hand. 

“Liar. You’re lying. You do want to.” Aziraphale scowled at him, and Crowley scowled back, nose to nose. 

“Bastard. Beautiful bastard.” He pulled him in again and kissed him, making sure to include plenty of tongue. He could be very good with his tongue. 

“Mmmph. You lying, wicked, tempting thing.” 

“You forgot ‘sexy’,” he mumbled into his mouth. Aziraphale’s only response was another squeeze, and he gasped. “ _Hhrrrng_ , fuck.” 

A hand smacked him, drawing his attention back to Aziraphale’s disapproving face. “Language.” 

Crowley glared at him indignantly, and decided to cheat after all, just a tiny bit. He used just a touch of magic to clear some of the alcohol from his blood- not a lot, just enough to let him think a bit better. It barely counted, really. The room stopped spinning, and while he was nothing resembling sober he was at least able to sit upright without help. He gave his head a shake and tried to pull his arm out of Aziraphale’s shirt, but it was stuck. His elbow was caught in the collar. After a few fruitless yanks he gave up and just shoved it further down, figuring that if he went low enough it would be worth his while eventually. He slid the other arm around his husband’s waist, gathering him up and kissing him tenderly...and went in for the kill. 

“Shall I tell you what I’m gonna do to you tomorrow?” He leaned in to place his lips against his ear, and briefly drew the earlobe into his mouth before kissing his cheek. He began to slowly undulate against him again, pressing down on his lap. 

“Angel,” he whispered. “Tomorrow I’m gonna take you to the theatre. We’ll go to dinner by the ocean, and go to that little pat- patisse- cake place you like so much for dessert. We’ll have wine on the beach at sunset, and I’ll hold your hand, and kiss you until the stars come out.” 

“Mmmf. Oh, my, that’s- that’s not fair at all,” Aziraphale gasped. One hand clutched at his arse as if to steady himself, and the grip on his sex faltered. 

“Demons don’t do _fair_.” Crowley bit his neck, still shifting his hips steadily against him. Oh, his waist was so soft. Like a marshmallow. He repressed the urge to bite it. “And then I’ll make slow love to you right there on the beach under those stars,” he pressed on, unrelenting. “I’ll make love to you for hours.” 

“We’ll do all of that,” he panted, getting excited too in spite of himself, “just as soon as I make you _come_.” He gave his hips an extra firm twist, and Aziraphale groaned. 

“Ha.” Crowley grinned a crocodile grin and rubbed harder, faster, ignoring his own pounding heart and growing arousal. “You really thought you could best a demon at temptation, angel? I’m the, the goddamn serpent of Eden. Temptation is what I _do_.” 

“In a battle of light and dark, forces of good will always- nnnnh- prevail,” the angel ground out between clenched teeth. His hand was barely moving at all now, breathing ragged, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. 

Sensing victory, Crowley twisted around to straddle him for better access. The motion sent the room spinning wildly around him again; he clutched at Aziraphale for balance, and in doing so suddenly realized how incredibly _good_ he smelled. He smelled like whisky and paper and sex. How exactly paper could smell like sex he didn’t know, but he wasn’t in any condition to analyze the impression. He wrapped his entire self around that plush waist and thrust against his groin over and over again, gasping, and the feel of him between his legs was almost too lovely to bear. “Oh...oh fuck.” He moaned and rubbed himself deliberately back and forth, eyes shut, head thrown back with abandon, and for a few delicious moments they were simply grinding on each other, completely lost in the moment. He looked down at that bulge again, watching his own erection press against it as he undulated his hips, then looked slack-jawed up at Aziraphale. The blue eyes met his own, equally dazed, and the world seemed to abruptly constrict. He tried to say something, but only managed a strangled wheezing sound. 

Then their tongues were in each other’s mouths, both arms wrapped so firmly around each other that he couldn’t tell where he ended and Aziraphale began. Crowley was no longer sure if they were still playing at all. He wanted him so desperately that it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He was writhing in his lap, thrusting his erection against his gloriously soft stomach as hard as he could while still grinding down on that perfect, rock-hard, tantalizing bulge, nearly blind with lust. Both Aziraphale’s hands were on his arse again, grasping and pulling him hard against him, and then suddenly those hands were down between them and frantically undoing his trouser button. He unzipped his own fly, and Crowley eagerly slid his hand inside and pulled him out. The sight of him, finally, the lightning touch of that perfect, bare skin… it was almost enough to tip him over the edge then and there.

With a frantic cry he braced his hands on the blue-clad shoulders and heaved himself up, reaching back to quickly miracle some lube, and slid onto him with an ecstatic groan. Aziraphale moaned loudly too; his hands grabbed his hips, pulling him down into a single perfect thrust. He felt huge and glorious inside him, and the moment he bottomed out Crowley came so hard he briefly saw stars. No buildup, no slow creep towards the ending, just one overpowering burst of absolute unfiltered raw pleasure that tore through his whisky-soaked body like a ballista bolt. He couldn't have stopped himself even if he wanted to, and he no longer wanted to. ”Oh, _fffffffuck_!” He moaned helplessly, shaking, coming on Aziraphale's shirt just as he had longed to do, and losing had never felt so wonderful. There was a roaring in his ears. 

He opened his eyes, panting and sweating, to find Aziraphale in a similar gasping, red-faced state. 

Crowley stared at him. “Did- did you...ah...” he didn’t bother finishing the sentence, because it became abruptly very obvious that he _had_. 

He coughed and scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I’m, uhhh.... Did I win?” he asked stupidly. 

Aziraphale groaned and rested his forehead against his shoulder with a thump. His arms were still wrapped all the way around him, holding on for dear life. “All things considered,” he said faintly, “I'm willing to consider this one a tie.” 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Ineffable Husbands PWP account, so check out my other works here for more of the same.
> 
> Also: I now have an Instagram where I will be compiling all the art I commission for my fics! Also will have new fic announcements, etc. Will include some NSFW art, so if you are 18+ and want to follow, come find me on IG @IneffablePenguin


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